


When You Wish Upon a Nymph

by KaliopeShipsIt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Bottom Derek Hale, But mostly fluff, Christmas, Consent issues that are addressed throughout the fic, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Mpreg, Derek mpreg, Erica and Boyd are alive, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Minor Melissa McCall/Sheriff Stilinski, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Mpreg, Original Character(s), POV Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaliopeShipsIt/pseuds/KaliopeShipsIt
Summary: Sheriff Stilinski rescues a nymph who wants to grant him a wish in exchange.John accidentally wishes for a grandchild and chaos ensues.A Derek!Mpreg as witnessed from John's POV.Merry Christmas everyone :)





	When You Wish Upon a Nymph

**Author's Note:**

> My Lovelies!
> 
> I've had the first 20 plus pages of this little story sit in my WIP-folder for two years but it never really quite went anywhere. However, I always knew I wanted it to include a Christmassy-touch, and as I sat pondering whether I'd get around to publishing the next chapter of "Call the Alpha Midwife" before my vacation, this little story jumped up and down and yelled "Me! Me! Me!" so loudly that I had not choice but to indulge it. Some rewrites and an additional 38 pages later and I'm officially calling it a day on fan fic writing for the year 2017. 
> 
> Thanks for staying so loyal my Lovelies and I hope to see all of you next year, as I finish my Stiles!mpreg adventure, hopefully get on top of my top two Derek!Mpreg WIPs and maybe even get around to finishing some of the other half-written stories in my WIP folder :).
> 
> As far as warnings for this fic go, I tagged it for 'Consent issues' because I'm quite aware that the whole set-up could be problematic if the consent issue is not addressed properly. I hope I've done it justice. 
> 
> I wrote this from John's POV because I like trying new things and as far as mpreg goes it's just way too easy to turn into a one-trick-pony. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it :)! 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy, my lovelies!

She is so tiny Sheriff Stilinski almost misses her, but then she lets out a broken little cry and he pauses.

Narrows his eyes.

Groans, because _of course_ there is a nymph stuck in the shower drain, miniature foot caught in one of the tiny holes.

Of _fucking_ course.

Knees creaking he crouches down, trying not to think about the fact that he’s butt-naked and probably making a horribly impolite first impression on the little lady.

If it _is_ , in fact, a lady, John can’t tell for sure.

He takes a moment to ponder whether his concern is sexist, but then dismisses the thought, figuring that it would be just as impolite to wave his junk into a little nymph-dude’s face.

Especially since he’s pretty sure his penis is actually bigger than the little creature.

Not that he wants to brag or anything.

He also very carefully ignores that he’s covered in raspberry shampoo.

Stiles is home for spring break and has done the shopping, because Derek seems to have a sweet tooth.

John is also particularly proficient at ignoring the images conjured by _that_ particular information.

In any case, Stiles can never say no to a good bargain, which is why they currently own a raspberry shampoo supply that’ll last them five years.

Ten, probably, if John’s hairline keeps thinning the way it has ever since he found out about his son’s relationship by virtue of walking in on Derek and Stiles playing Werewolf and Little Red Riding Hood.

It’s not that John dislikes Derek.

He’s grown to love him like a son, actually, but sometimes, in his weakest moments, he looks at the former Alpha growling someone into intimidation … and sees a red cape, a red hood, and a white apron way too tiny to cover the one proudly erect 8 inches in the universe John never wanted to make the acquaintance of.

8.2 inches, technically, because of course his kid would take accurate measurements and then pester everyone about it.

For science.

Dick-measuring aside, John is beyond thrilled that his son has found the only person on the planet who’d manage to get it up for an old wolf ears-headband, a floppy tail, and Grandma Stilinski’s old nightgown with cut-outs in convenient places, ruining a perfectly beloved childhood memory.

Really, he is.

At the time, however, after he’d stumbled out of the room and almost broken his neck by tripping over Red Riding Hood’s basket – Grandma was in desperate need of lube and handcuffs, apparently – he was mostly thrilled for the Bourbon in the cabinet.

He once again shudders at the memory and flinches in surprise when two little hands make a grab for his pinkie-toe, reminding him of the crisis at hand.

“Help,” the tiny being whispers – or at least John thinks that’s what she’s saying, since he can barely hear her over the sound of the rushing water.

It’s stupidly reckless, probably.

He knows that the chances of the water-creature turning into a Sharknado and eating him alive in his very own shower are surprisingly high, given the town’s track record, but he listens to his instincts and gently dislodges her from the drain regardless.

As soon as her foot is freed the nymph hops onto the palm of his hand, teeny-tiny head looking up at him with a happy grin and hands motioning for him to hold her up.

“You saved me!” the nymph chirps and John has to hold her right against his ear, still struggling to understand her.

“ _What_?” he bellows, hoping she’ll get the hint.

The nymph titters, tugging at his earlobe.

“You saved me and as a thank you I will grant you what you wish the most!” she yells, her little face going a little red from the strain of raising her voice to be heard over the rushing water.

John snorts … and then sputters when he accidentally inhales his shampoo.

There are quite a lot of things he wishes for.

Better cholesterol levels so he can go back to eating donuts with his coffee, for one thing.

A week without a supernatural crisis that threatens his son’s life or that of the people he loves.

Eternal happiness and success for his kid, obviously.

A universe that finally has enough of torturing Derek Hale and allows him to be happy with Stiles, leading to the aforementioned eternal happiness for his kid.

The assurance that, wherever she is, Claudia is happy, at peace, and – maybe – her blessing for finally taking Melissa on the date they have silently postponed for the past seven years at least.

A front-porch bathed in the setting sunlight, a beautiful woman at his side, and a tiny grandchild on his lap, listening to all the stories of his or her father’s greatest mischief with Talia Hale’s wide hazel eyes and Claudia’s beautiful smile.

A grandbaby.

A perfect – if biologically impossible, John isn’t dumb – combination of its grandmothers to carry on the legacy of two of the greatest women John has ever known.

A grandbaby who would be the healing thread to sow the pieces of Derek’s heart back together.

A grandbaby that would restore a part of Stiles’ soul, broken in a lonely hospital room many years ago.

They’ve never spoken about it, but here’s the thing … John truly isn’t dumb.

He _knows_ that Stiles and Derek long for a family, even if they may not be consciously aware of it yet.

He’s certain they are yearning for their own little pack unit to cherish, protect, and teach, and it breaks his heart that – despite all the legal advances regarding gay rights in the past years – it might never happen for them.

Grandbabies.

Damn it, John really wants to spoil and love on some grandbabies.

The nymph chirps in his hand, but John can’t hear her over the sound of the rushing water, letting out a startled squawk when she begins to glow in his hand.

He inhales shampoo and water for the second time in under a minute and coughs irritably, his free hand rubbing vigorously across his face when the raspberry shampoo runs into his eyes.

When he looks down again the little creature is gone and John lets out a relieved huff, turning off the shower and shaking his head as he grabs for the towels.

It’s not that he’s anti-nymph in general … he just really, _really_ doesn’t want to have them in his shower.

“Beacon Hills, seriously, good thing I didn’t get to make a wish!” he mutters, figuring that, as far as supernatural shower encounters go, he was probably lucky.

Humming the _Jaws_ theme song, John decides to eat pop tarts for dinner, because he’s an adult man who can make his own choices … and whose diet-policing son is currently not at home and can’t stop him.

And if John’s thoughts once more drift to the topic of grandchildren and sharing his pop tarts with them while watching _Charlie Brown_ then well, no one will ever know.

 

======================

 

All the way across town, Derek feels a soft tingling deep inside his belly, warming him up from the inside as he lets out a gasp, moans, twists his head to reach at Stiles’ mouth, fingers digging into the sheets.

Stiles speeds up his thrusts, his mouth descending upon Derek’s and muffling his moans with half-aimed kisses, coordination completely gone as he nears his climax.

When Stiles comes Derek gasps, the fire in his belly bordering on painful for a short second before he is overtaken by his own orgasm, arms trembling as Stiles collapses on top of him.

After a moment, Stiles wraps his long arms around Derek’s middle and kisses his shoulder blades, his heartbeat a steady thump against the sweaty skin of Derek’s back.

He pulls out, eventually, gets up from the bed with shaky legs, grabs a washcloth.

Stiles gently wipes it across Derek’s skin, his smile fond when Derek can barely keep his eyes open, a big yawn splitting his lips when Stiles cuddles up against him, arm resting comfortably on his waist.

They fall asleep like that, deeply and truly sated, their hands clasped below Derek’s navel.

The tingling sensation is long forgotten.

 

===================

 

Seven weeks later, John has all but forgotten about his strange shower encounter.

It’s not the first time he’s noticed a new supernatural creature since the big revelation and even though he keeps meaning to tell Stiles about it, if only to see if nymphs are really meant to be that ridiculously tiny, something always comes up.

He is distracted by his job, Stiles’ increasing anxiety about life after finishing his Master’s, and the occasional monster sticking its nose, beak or trunk where it doesn’t belong.

John’s mind is so occupied that he doesn’t think anything of it when Derek, known for his tendency to drown himself in espresso whenever he has to do paperwork, grimaces at the taste of coffee during the Sheriff’s department meeting in the first week of May.

He’s pretty sure that Derek hasn’t turned down a single cup of coffee ever since he became a deputy, but John chalks it up to the fact that they exchanged the brand recently and Derek’s werewolf nose seems to be all about continuity.

When he sees the werewolf rubbing his temples with a tense expression on more than one occasion during the following week, John figures it has little to do with his health and a lot to do with Mrs. Robinson’s legendary crush on him.

It’s not professional, but John definitely agrees with Stiles that it’s downright hysterical that a 68-year old lady named Mrs. _Robinson_ is so enamored with Derek that she comes in to report a crime on a bi-weekly basis.

John could save him, technically, but Mrs. Robinson keeps her hands to herself, carefully avoids inappropriate comments, and occasionally brings cookies for the entire station.

The day before Stiles is due back in Beacon Hills for his last “I pretend I miss my Dad but I really just want to gaze into Derek’s eyes for three days straight … and _stuff_ ”-visit before his last round of final papers, Derek gets treated to a very detailed description of the infamous dog-poop-vandal’s latest hit on the elderly of Beacon Hills and their well-kept lawns.

John winces in compassion when he notices his deputy-in-law looking rather green by the time Mrs. Robinson has moved on to explosive-diarrhea, one hand pressed against his belly as if to make a point.

It takes a her moment to realize Derek’s expression, but Mrs. Robinson eventually catches on, her face morphing from playful indignation into apologetic territory.

What John doesn’t expect, however, is her suddenly letting out a startled gasp, looking horribly confused for a second as she leans into Derek’s private space and gazes into his eyes like she’s hoping to find the secrets of the universe in them.

“How … ?” she begins, and then shakes her head, looking flustered.

She pats Derek’s shoulder awkwardly and high-tails it out of the station, almost bowling John over.

Before she steps outside she turns around and once more stares at Derek, like she’s not quite sure she’s actually seeing him.

Frowning, John walks up to him, pats his shoulder, and instructs him to go check out a code 21, figuring he just needs some fresh air after hearing about all that poop.

He looks a lot better when he comes back two hours later and by then John has forgotten all about it, too occupied with paperwork and jealously eyeing Deputy Gonzales’ donut.

One day later, Stiles is hopped up on the counter next to him in the kitchen, lamenting about his thesis as they wait for Derek to come home from his shift and bring the steaks for dinner.

When Derek finally walks in Stiles’ eyes light up and he opens his arms wide, spreads his legs a little to make room for Derek, draws him in and declares “I _missed_ you” like he hasn’t been home in years, rather than a couple of weeks.

Derek smiles and holds out the bag with the steaks to John before he wraps both arms around Stiles.

He rests his head against the crook of Stiles’ neck, closes his eyes and breathes him in, and John knows enough about werewolf love declarations by now to write a trashy romance novels about it, so he lets them be, busying himself with the steaks.

“Love you, Boo,” Stiles grins and Derek huffs quietly, resistance against the nickname long since given up.

John shakes his head, chuckles, and tells Stiles to stop canoodling and get started on the chopping.

Soon, the smell of steak fills the air and Derek’s looking rather ravenous all of a sudden, eyeing the steaks like he’s planning to eat them with his bare hands.

 _Werewolves_ , John fondly thinks.

They eat dinner on the couch, a game playing on the television on mute as they talk.

John soaks in every second, because yeah, he missed the kid, too, and he’s altogether aware that he doesn’t have many of these moments left, since Stiles is planning to move in with Derek once he’s done with college.

It’s ridiculous, probably, he knows that Stiles will stop by for weekly control visits to the pantry and have Derek sniff for John’s secret Twinkie stash, but it’ll be different, all the same.

Good different, probably, judging how happy Stiles looks, snuggled against Derek’s side and playing with his arm hair absentmindedly, but still … different.

“I don’t know about you boys, but I could go for another beer,” John says loudly, shaking himself out of these morose thoughts.

“I’ll go get it,” Derek offers, disentangling himself from Stiles and jumping up, heading towards the kitchen.

John frowns at Derek’s beer, almost completely full, as if the werewolf barely nipped at it, and he’s about to ask him if he wants another brand when he notices that Derek has stopped dead in the middle of the room.

His back is to them, so John doesn’t see it coming, but one moment Derek’s standing and then he’s on the ground, out-cold, face paler than John’s ever seen it.

“Derek!” Stiles yells, carrots and mashed potatoes flying everywhere as he throws his plate away in his haste to get to his mate, dropping down next to him.

“Derek! Derek! Dad! He’s not moving!” Stiles yells, fingers flying over the unconscious man as he checks for a pulse and breathing.

“Derek! Come on, Derek, wake up, what happened, why …”

Derek lets out a strangled breath all of a sudden, opening his eyes with some difficulty, and Stiles looks like all his bones have turned to jelly momentarily, forehead dropping against Derek’s as he breathes out a shaky laugh.

It’s been twenty seconds, at most, but John knows from experience that’s about twenty seconds too long.

He kneels down next to them and checks Derek’s pulse as well, satisfied when he finds it strong and steady.

“Wha … what happened?” Derek croaks and Stiles lets out a shaky laugh, kissing his forehead, cheeks, and lips.

“You fainted,” he explains and now Derek’s looking incredibly confused.

“Why … why would I faint? I’m a werewolf,” he states, looking at John for confirmation, clearly not quite aware of his surroundings yet.

Stiles barks out a laugh without a trace of humor in it.

“No shit, glad you didn’t hit your head, Boo. Seriously, what happened? Could there have been wolfsbane in the steaks? Where did you buy them? Do we have to …”

“No. I would have smelled it. I … I don’t know what just happened,” Derek says, breathing carefully as he sits up with Stiles’ help.

Stiles is still freaking out, it’s clear to see in his eyes, but Derek’s looking better by the second, color returning to his cheeks.

“I think I’m fine now. I think … maybe I just got up too quickly. That’s when I started getting lightheaded. It’s no big deal. Werewolves can get dizzy, it doesn’t mean anything, I’m fine,” he says, grasping Stiles’ hand tightly.

Judging by the look on his son’s face, Stiles is about as convinced as John.

 

===================

 

The boys sleep in Stiles’ bed, that night, because Stiles almost has a coronary when Derek tries to tell him he’s completely fine to drive home.

When John passes Stiles’ open bedroom door around 1 in the morning to pay dues to his old-man bladder, the moonlight illuminates the room enough for him to see Derek fast asleep, features peaceful as he lies on his back.

Stiles is wide-awake, lying on his side next to him, head propped up on an elbow as he watches the werewolf sleep, his hand resting on Derek’s chest.

It gives John pause.

It’s not an unfamiliar scene and it takes him back to a time he wants nothing more than to forget.

Stiles used to do it to him, back then, sleeping curled against his side in the king size bed that had suddenly become like an empty black hole, one thumb stuck in his mouth and the other grasping his shirt, right above his heart.

He was seeking confirmation that his daddy was still alive, John always thought.

Confirmation that John’s heart wasn’t about to stop like the heart monitor at the hospital, the flat line John knows Stiles will hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

He hadn’t been able to sleep in his own bed for months, back then.

Seeing him do the same to Derek, now, is almost like a punch to the gut, the realization just how much his kid loves his werewolf as astonishing to John as when he first realized it.

Knowing that Stiles is doing it because he’s afraid is even worse.

Their eyes meet, wordlessly, and John gently closes the door, leaving them in peace.

Hopes that Derek’s instincts about his own body are right.

 

==================

 

The next morning John has just finished shaving and is in the process of toweling his face dry when the door to the bathroom is yanked open and Derek stumbles inside, doubles over the toilet, and starts vomiting.

Five point two seconds later Stiles stumbles in as well, eyes wild and hair going every which way, having obviously been yanked out of his sleep.

Derek might not be dying but he sure sounds like it and Stiles drops to his knees behind him, rubs his back, grasps his shoulder, looks helpless.

The sight tugs at another memory but John brushes it off.

“Wolfsbane?” John asks, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of dry heaving and Stiles stretches his neck, checks for black goop.

He shakes his head, wide-eyed, and John suddenly feels terrified.

Twenty minutes later Derek is curled up on the bed, hand resting against his abdomen, and Scott is checking him over, alternating between touches and sniffs and seemingly without a single clue as to why his Beta is fainting and vomiting all over the place.

“I don’t think you’re ill. You smell … uh, you smell very nice, actually. A bit richer, maybe? Earthier? It’s kind of weird, but it’s also kind of … you know… nice,” Scott declares finally, scratching his head in confusion.

Stiles scoffs loudly, hands still stroking through Derek’s hair as he glares at his best friend.

“No, he doesn’t _know_ , obviously, he thinks he’s fine when he’s clearly not! Something is wrong and we have to find out what it is, I can’t …”

“Stiles,” Derek said softly, leaning into his mate’s touch as he makes a grab for his hand.

“I promise you I’m fine. I’d know if I wasn’t.”

“Fainting and vomiting is not fine when you’re a human, let alone a _werewolf_!” Stiles snaps, then sighs, looking deeply unhappy.

“He’s not ill, Stiles. I’d be able to tell, “ Scott repeats, his right hand coming to rest on Derek’s belly and rubbing absentmindedly, obviously not aware he’s doing it.

John’s eyebrows rise all the way up to his hairline when the Alpha’s eyes flash red

Stiles exclaims, “Whoa!” at the same time as Derek says, “Uhm, Scott?”, both of them sounding very confused.

“Huh?” Scott mutters, completely oblivious to the fact that his eyes are lit up like a traffic light as he keeps stroking Derek’s abdomen.

“Scott … _what_ are you doing?” Stiles demands, looking at his best friend’s wandering hand accusatorily.

Scott follows his gaze and then jerks his hand away, flushing in mortification.

“Oh! Sorry Derek, I … I have no clue why I just did that!” he exclaims.

“Is this _another_ werewolf thing no one’s told me about? Alpha TLC via bad-touching?”

Stiles groans, looking miffed.

Derek rolls his eyes at the same time as Scott squeaks, “I wasn’t bad-touching him! I was … I wanted … I didn’t … I just wanted to make him feel better!”

“That’s admirable, Scott, but maybe fondling isn’t the way to go,” Stiles retorts sharply and John blinks in surprise at the uncharacteristically territorial tone in his son’s voice.

“I know! I … I just wanted to make sure he’s provided for!”

“I can do the providing, thank you very much!” Stiles huffs, resting his own hand against Derek’s belly for a brief moment.

“Are you one hundred percent absolutely sure he’s fine?” he asks, voice tinged with more worry.

Scott sighs, looking a bit frustrated.

“I just told you! It’s probably just a werewolf-flu thing, but he smells really healthy now! Like … like chocolate-covered cherries!”

“Chocolate-covered cherries aren’t healthy, they give you diabetes!” Stiles snaps.

“I could go for some chocolate-covered cherries,” Derek muses, a small smile on his lips.

He’s trying to break the tension, obviously, and he succeeds when Stiles lets out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Nope, Mr. Pukey McPukerton, all you’re getting today is dry toast and tea! If this truly is a case of the werewolf flu, I’ll be damned if you aren’t taken care of properly. Dad, where is the hot water bottle?”

John chuckles.

“You mean the teddy bear one? In the attic, with your other childhood memorabilia. Stiles, if he says he’s fine, shouldn’t he …”

“Nope! I’m clearly dating a man-child who wants chocolate right after puking, so I’m going to properly mother-hen him today and I _obviously_ can’t do it without Mr. Snuggles!” Stiles says, grumbling to himself as he leaves the room in search for the water bottle

They’re snuggling in front of the television by the time John leaves for work; Mr. Snuggles resting against Derek’s upper belly while Stiles is rubbing his lower abdomen.

John is above making dog-jokes.

He is.

However, the mighty former Alpha looking blissed-out and relaxed into a puddle of goo while receiving belly-rubs is a sight to behold for sure.

John’s still a little worried, obviously, but Scott has spent enough time around sick animals to detect illnesses, so John’s relatively certain the Alpha would have recognized the smell of sickness if there was something to be worried about.

When he comes home that night Derek is happily curled up on the couch with a bowl of chocolate-covered cherries and Stiles is nuzzling against his shoulder with a half-resigned, half-nauseatingly-lovey-dovey expression.

Derek seems fine again.

Nothing to worry about.

 

==================

 

 

Stiles instructs John to keep an eye on Derek before he leaves for his last two weeks of college, but whatever disagreed with Derek’s iron-clad werewolf stomach seems to have passed his system.

He still looks tired a lot, however, and John quietly weighs the pros and cons of being accused of favoritism before he decides to go easy on the newest recruit, pairing him off with Deputy Darrell Tucker for most of his patrols.

Darrell’s a quiet guy, more stoic than Derek, even. He doesn’t speak much but he’s observant and he’s got almost thirty years of experience.

He also has a tendency to hog the steering wheel like a momma bear protecting her cub and Derek passes out on the passenger seat a total of five times in those two weeks, looking like a sleeping little angel with a beard in desperate need of shaving when John has to wake him up for the fifth time.

John tries very hard to keep his composure when Derek realizes the car is surrounded by his cell-phone waving colleagues and blushes to the tips of his ears and even Darrell cracks a small smile.

Thankfully, Derek snaps out of his hibernation state _before_ John seriously has to think about reprimanding him and by the time they drive down to Stiles’ graduation ceremony at the end of May the werewolf looks like the picture of health and energy, his face glowing with pride when Stiles walks across the stage.

They go out to a burger place after and Derek puts away three at once, to John’s utter envy and Stiles’ obvious relief.

John drives them back to Beacon Hills that night and after enduring two hours of trying not to notice his son eye-fucking his boyfriend through the rear-view mirror John drops them both off at the loft, figuring it’s better for everyone involved.

They don’t even make it into the building before they are all over each other already and John is pretty sure he leaves marks on the asphalt when he high-tails it out of the parking lot before the shirts come off and he has to arrest them for public indecency.

… again.

He’s a good father that way.

As May turns into June Stiles hangs out at the station a lot, sending out job-applications, updating the bestiary, and canoodling with Derek when the werewolf isn’t busy with paperwork or checking out a call.

Towards the end of June, John puts a firm stop to the canoodling, glaring at them reproachfully as he cites colorful ‘witness-reports’ of the deputies who’d attempted to go to the bathroom for the past 40 minutes and hastily took flight at the sounds of pure ecstasy coming from inside.

John can be creative, sure, but trying to explain why his deputy-in-law has a tendency to howl is a bit of a tough sell.

“They are young, let them enjoy themselves!”

Mrs. Robinson clicks her tongue when he grumbles about writing an official reprimand and he snorts, reasonably sure Derek’s favorite ‘customer’ is still holding out hope for being asked to join them.

She has literally turned into Derek’s favorite, in fact, because instead of dramatic tales of dog-poop she now brings him mountains of cookies every time she stops by.

Or brownies.

As well as, on one memorable occasion, an entire chocolate cake, that she forbids him to share with the department because he’s a “growing boy and needs some pampering!”

John feels a little ashamed – and decides to blame it on tasty-treat-envy – when he notices that Derek is in fact a _growing_ boy in the middle of July.

He walks past Derek’s desk one morning and sees him shift uncomfortably, tugging at the waist of his pants. John blinks in surprise when he notices that Derek’s gotten a bit chubby around the waist, his belly rounding out just a little and pushing over the waistband of his uniform pants, his uniform shirt stretched across and looking a little too tight as well.

It’s a bit surprising, given Derek’s approach to working out, but it also gives John some satisfaction to know that even werewolf-metabolisms pay the price for frequent cookie-binges at the office.

John pats his own little belly, smaller than when he was still allowed to eat donuts but definitely not as flat as it was when he was young.

A dad-bod, for sure, but whelp, he _is_ a dad, so what the hell ever.

For a moment he worries about Stiles’ reaction to his boyfriend’s new body, given his lack of tact and need to restrict the unhealthy food-intake of the people he loves, before shrugging and figuring that Derek could turn green and grow a tail and Stiles would still be writing sonnets about him.

As it turns out, Stiles, seems to be quite partial to Derek’s newly developed chub, or at least that’s the distinct impression John gets when he walks in on them in his office a week later, with Derek half lying on his desk, shirt rucked up and pants hanging off his ankles.

Stiles’ hands are roaming all over his boyfriend’s round little belly as he demonstrates his lack of gag-reflex and no, John was _not_ interested in that part of his son’s skill-set, thank you very much.

John flies out of his office like a bat out of hell, hissing bloody murder and stomping over to Derek’s desk to liberate the batch of cherry-crumble bars Mrs. Robinson brought over that morning.

As usual, they’re for Derek only, but John feels that he’s deserved them after this latest attempt at thinning out his hairline.

A cherry treat-deprived and orgasm-interrupted Derek mopes around for the rest of the day, Stiles disinfects the desk with flaming red ears and John … almost hopes he catches them in the act more often.

Parental traumas in exchange for Mrs. Robinson’s treats are definitely worth it.

Occasionally.

 

===============

 

Towards the end of July summer is at its peak and the temperatures go up to an almost unbearable degree, making everyone a little bit heat-antsy and – in Derek’s case – a lot heat-snappy.

He’s so damn moody all the time that John almost wishes he hadn’t put an indefinite ban on office canoodling after the deep-throating incident.

For the most part, Derek’s as happy as a bee when Stiles’ hands are all over him, but by the beginning of August, not even his son’s undying love for the werewolf is enough to appease him.

Stiles moved to the loft in mid-June, but John finds him moping on the living-room couch one morning during the week in which July turns into August, clearly still upset after a fight with Derek.

John doesn’t want to intrude, so he doesn’t ask about the fight, but he can’t stop himself from glaring at Derek accusatorily when the werewolf shows up with mournful eyes and a guilty expression half an hour later.

Derek lowers his eyes in shame and John nods in satisfaction, throwing out a “Get your act together, boys!” before he high-tails it out of there, hoping to be far, far away by the time the clothes fly off for some heated apology sex.

He knows his kid, after all.

Five days later, Darrell has to pick up his youngest child from summer camp, leaving Derek without a partner, and John takes the opportunity to investigate.

It’s not his relationship, so he’s not going to grill Derek on his and Stiles’ increasingly frequent spats, but he _is_ starting to get worried about the constant mood-swings, wondering if there’s something serious going on with the werewolf.

They’re on their way to check out a disturbance by some youth at the lake and even though John’s got the AC of the cruiser cranked up to the max he’s still sweating, the salty moisture dripping into his eye occasionally and making him curse in annoyance.

Next to him, Derek hasn’t stopped fidgeting since they got into the car and he looks absolutely miserable, his throat red and splotchy and sweat dripping from his nose as he tugs at his shirt, bends forward to get closer to the AC-panel, sits back with a grunt and tugs at the seatbelt over his lap, fingers massaging his lower belly.

John doesn’t make a habit of checking out Derek, so he hasn’t paid attention in a while, but now that the werewolf is sitting right next to him he can’t help but notice that the chub he noticed in the middle of July has turned into a belly that, technically, is starting to grow out of ‘small’ territory, pushing over his belt and straining against a shirt that is absolutely too small on the werewolf and makes John wince in discomfort just by looking.

Derek seems to share the sentiment and when he starts fiddling with his belt John quickly looks away, since he doesn’t want him to feel self-conscious about it.

By the time John pulls into the parking lot by the lake house Derek is staring out of the window absentmindedly, one hand resting on his belly and rubbing gently, his face distant, as if he’s a million miles away.

The image triggers a memory in John, a 25-year-old memory of one of the most exciting times in his life.

He snorts, laughing at himself for even making such a ludicrous comparison.

Derek gives him a questioning look, fingers still cupping his belly, but John shakes his head and motions for him to get out of the car.

The belly is not quite as obvious when Derek is standing but John can still make out the roundness, curving out smooth and gracefully below his chest and dipping down into his pants.

John shakes his head firmly. He might not be entirely up to date on what’s ok and what’s not, but he _has_ heard of fat-shaming and he’ll be damned if he gives in to societal pressure and accidentally hurts Derek’s feelings.

 _Well … even **assuming** that he’s unhappy about getting a little belly probably counts as fat-shaming, Old Man, so how about you stop worrying about his body altogether and focus on your job _ John thinks, smiling a little ruefully.

Derek frowns again but John shrugs, gesturing towards the approaching old lady who called in the disturbance instead.

Derek is still frowning by the time they make it back to the cruiser and he’s just pulled the door open when he freezes, head whipping towards the right and nostrils flaring.

He’s off without a second’s warning and John curses, throws the door shut and runs after him, hoping desperately they won’t find the perpetrators to be trolls, goblins, or Gollum himself.

When he finally catches up with Derek the werewolf is kneeling right next to the lake, head bowed down as he holds something in his hands.

“Derek? What is it? Is it a mermaid? A water-dragon? The Loch-Ness monster? Hell, a misunderstood Kraken?”

Wheezing, John comes to a stop next to him, letting out a shocked gasp when Derek looks up with wounded eyes, expecting the absolute worst.

“His mama couldn’t protect him,” Derek whispers, and then – to John’s never-ending horror – promptly bursts into tears.

“What the … Derek, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did someone get hurt? What is the matter with you?”

“He just … He just wanted to go for a little swim and then … then …”

Derek is sobbing now, barely getting his words out, and John finally sees what he means when the werewolf’s hands open slightly, revealing a very tiny, very dead, and also very decomposed baby duck.

“Derek … son … I don’t … uh … can you please put the duck down?”

“No!” Derek sobs, folding his entire body over to shield the dead animal from John’s grabby fingers.

Bewildered, John sighs, pulling out his phone.

“Uh … son? You doing anything important?”

“Huh? Nah, what’s up, are you … hold on, _why is Derek crying_?”

Wincing, John holds the phone away when Stiles literally shouts the last words into his ear and he sighs again, choosing his words carefully.

“As far as I can tell, he’s upset about a dead … baby duck?”

Derek lets out another mournful howl and for a very long moment the only thing John can hear on the phone is silence.

Then …

“I’m coming right now!”

Two hours later Derek is curled up on the couch in John Stilinski’s home, dead to the world like a werewolf who just spent a solid 90 minutes crying his eyes out, and Stiles is sitting in the kitchen with a worried expression, his fingers thrumming against the wood restlessly.

“So, this is not the first time something like this happened, then?” John asks carefully and Stiles lets out a frustrated sound, shaking his head.

“We watched the red wedding on _Game of Thrones_ five days ago. You don’t even want to know. At least _that one_ made a little bit of sense!”

John nods, because he’s seen that so-called _wedding_ and he’s still mad about it.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with him lately, he’s acting like he’s been replaced by a pod-person sometimes! He’s super happy and excited one minute, devastated the next. One minute he can’t get enough of me, the next I’m not even supposed to look at him and I just … sorry, too much information. Dad, what if there’s something seriously wrong with him?”

“You could always take him to Deaton,” John offers but Stiles shakes his head immediately, looking contrite.

“I spoke to him the night Derek fainted and also after he vomited. Deaton said not to worry if it didn’t repeat itself. Apparently, the Grimm brothers found that werewolves _can_ get upset stomachs after over-indulgence on occasion, which is why they put in that one bit about the stones in the wolf’s belly. Then Deaton recited German poetry that sounded like he was trying to kill me, it really wasn’t a very helpful conversation.”

“What about Scott?” John asks and this time Stiles downright scoffs.

“If Scott was Jean-Baptiste Grenouille he’d have already slathered him in lard and wrapped him up in sheets to extract his smell for the perfect perfume. As far as Scotty is concerned, Derek is healthier than healthy and smells like the air after a good rain shower. I’m also pretty sure I almost caught him stuffing his nose in a place it really doesn’t belong last week. I told Derek I didn’t appreciate all that sniffing and touching and we had a massive fight about Alpha-Beta bonding – that night I slept on the couch, by the way – but I’ll tell you this: I’m pretty damn sure Derek never stuck his nose down Boyd, Erica or Isaac’s pants for the sake of their wolfy brotherhood!”

John blinks against the very vivid mental images that are suddenly exploding inside his head and promptly decides to go and get himself a beer.

By the time he returns Stiles has joined Derek on the couch, hanging almost dangerously off the edge with half of his body as he gently strokes the werewolf’s stomach, his cheek pressed against Derek’s softly rising chest.

Since both of them have their eyes closed John allows himself a moment to observe them carefully.

He takes in the protective, almost possessive way Stiles’ hand is splayed all over the werewolf’s belly and once more shakes his head as a memory tugs at his brain.

They’ve always been extremely tactile, but John can’t quite remember Stiles ever touching his werewolf boyfriend with such gentleness, as if he’d break at any second.

The cold feeling of dread in his gut takes him by surprise and he tenses, suddenly a lot more worried than before.

He knows that Deaton and Scott aren’t worried, but John trusts his son’s instincts when it comes to Derek a lot more. Stiles isn’t quite anxious, yet, but he is worried nevertheless, evident in the tension between his shoulders and the way he looks at Derek when the werewolf isn’t paying attention.

John shakes his head, forcing himself to snap out of it.

Mood-swings, a little not-so-little-belly chub, and duck-burials in the backyard aside, Derek _does_ look healthy.

He’s glowing, in fact, and John really, _really_ wants to entertain the thought that – for once – nothing sinister is going on and it’s something completely normal … like perfectly acceptable mood swings when being forced to work during a full-blown California summer.

Everything’s completely normal.

The fact that there’s something tugging at the back of John’s mind is completely beside the point.

 

==================

 

The pack has a meeting at the Stilinski residence at the end of August, taking advantage of the fact that temperatures are finally beginning to drop and making liberal use of John’s newly purchased massive barbecue grill.

They’ve just interrupted a slightly traumatizing discussion about a murderous unicorn possibly terrorizing the woods to sit down for some steaks when Derek suddenly drops his fork with a loud gasp.

John’s head whips towards him, fear blooming inside his chest when he sees the way Derek’s grabbing his belly, eyes wide and terrified.

“Derek?” Stiles exclaims, pushing Scott out of the way to get to his mate and kneeling down next to the gasping werewolf.

“Derek? Talk to me, what’s happening?”

“I … Stiles, there’s …” Derek begins, gasping once more and clutching his belly with both hands when whatever freaked him out initially seems to be happening again.

When he looks up his expression is so uncharacteristically panicked that John almost takes a step back.

“Something’s wrong!”

“What? What’s wrong? Talk to me, are you in pain, should we call Deaton?”

“On it!” John barks, already pulling out his phone, his heartbeat rising with every dial tone as he watches Stiles press his own hands against Derek’s belly, rounder than ever and clearly the source of whatever is happening.

“I don’t know, it’s … _oh god_!” Derek breathes, eyes widening to almost impossible proportions as he grasps at his stomach once more, following a pattern that John can’t make sense of.

“Damn it Alan, pick up!” John hisses, listening to the dial tone.

His eyes are glued on Derek and Stiles, the rest of the anxious pack members merely a noise in the background.

“Derek?” Stiles whispers, pleading, and Derek grabs his hand, pushes it to the side of his belly.

“Do you feel that?” he asks, voice shaking, and when Stiles shakes his head with a frown he places his own on top of Stiles’, pushing in closer.

“There! You must have felt that!”

“I don’t feel anything Derek! You’re scaring me, tell me what’s going on!”

“Movement! Something’s moving in there!” Derek exclaims, voice high in his panic.

Stiles pulls his hand back like it’s on fire, stares at Derek’ stomach.

“Moving? Where? In your stomach? But that’s … I mean …”

Stiles stops talking, looking at his boyfriend with narrowed eyes, and John knows he’s racking his brain for possibilities, visibly trying to stay calm.

“Derek, I need you to stay calm for me, ok? Can you describe what you’re feeling, exactly?”

Derek takes a deep breath, staring down at his belly with wide eyes.

“It’s like … I don’t know. A flutter? But a really strong flutter, like … like … like bubbles popping, maybe? I don’t know, Stiles, this isn’t normal, this shouldn’t be happening, I’ve never felt something like this, I don’t … what _is_ this?”

Derek’s eyes are so impossibly wide and John feels a sinking sensation deep inside his gut, fear threatening to choke him.

His fingers feel numb as he ends the call to Deaton’s cellphone and uses the number for the clinic instead, unable to tear his eyes away from that horrible expression of fear in Derek’s face.

He looks like a wild animal, as if, somehow, his instincts are telling him exactly what’s wrong, urging him to do _something,_ but clearly having no clue _what_.

John has never seen him like this and it makes him almost nauseous.

“Vet Clinic, how may I …”

“Damn it Alan, pick up your fucking phone!” John bellows, not bothering with niceties.

“Something’s wrong with Derek, we’re getting him to you as soon as I hang up! Clear out the clinic, whatever this is, it’s bad!”

John ends the call, breathing heavily, aware that all eyes are on him right now.

“I’ll drive,” John says, grabbing the keys for his cruiser and marching ahead, no longer able to stand the look in Derek’s eyes.

Scott herds Kira, Isaac, Lydia, Erica, and Boyd into the jeep, taking off ahead of them, and Stiles helps a shaking Derek climb into the cruiser, looking like he’s barely keeping it together himself.

“I can’t feel it now,” Derek exclaims, both hands still pressed against his abdomen and looking like he’s expecting it to start up again any second.

Stiles’ hands are pressed against his stomach as well and he keeps murmuring soft reassurances, his terrified eyes meeting John’s in the rear view mirror.

The closer they get to the clinic the more John feels on edge, as if they’re at the cusp of a realization that’s going to change everything.

He’s not quite sure why, exactly, but something in the way Derek’s cradling his belly – the way he’s been touching it for months, really – is making him nervous.

Very, very nervous.

Deaton’s waiting for them when they arrive at the clinic, motioning them inside with his usual stoic expression.

It’s clear that Scott’s already taken it upon himself to inform Deaton about the specifics, because Deaton leads them straight to the backroom, where the ultrasound is set up.

“Do you think it’s a dragon?” Scott whispers as Derek hefts himself on the exam table and John kind of maybe wants to slap him until he realizes that Scott isn’t making an attempt at breaking the tension but is completely serious.

“Why the hell would it be a dragon?” Erica snaps, her voice tense as she watches her former Alpha lie down.

“Not a full-grown dragon, obviously! A dragon-parasite! A dragon-egg! I think I actually read something about that in the bestiary! This guy ate an egg and thought it was a chicken egg, but it was actually a dragon egg and months later the dragon tried to hatch right out of his belly! Like in the movie _Alien_ , except for real!”

“I highly doubt it’s a dragon, Scott,” Deaton says calmly, his big hands carefully feeling up and down Derek’s stomach.

The emissary’s eyebrows are almost up to his hairline as he turns towards the ultrasound machine and Stiles quickly fills the vacated space, one hand cradling Derek’s face and the other placed on his boyfriend’s stomach.

“We’ll figure this out. Whatever it is, we’ll figure this out,” he promises him, moving out of the way so Deaton can administer the gel to Derek’s belly and sitting down next to him, touching his forehead to Derek’s in silent support when the werewolf hisses at the cold sensation.

For a moment John’s attention centers on the werewolf’s belly button, or, more precisely, the way it’s pushing out a little.

He’s seen Derek shirtless enough to know he’s never had an outie, and once again there’s a tug of memory, except much more detailed this time, taking him right back to another examination room many years ago and making his heart go …

Nope.

Not even an option.

No.

He’s going crazy, obviously, and he’s no longer wasting a single second thinking along such ridiculous lines.

Sadly, he _is_ a Sheriff.

His job is connecting the dots and _oh god_ , are there dots, all of them coalescing into one big picture of insanity right in front of his very eyes.

Derek going from coffee-addict to quitting cold-turkey almost over night.

Derek being constantly exhausted and suffering from headaches.

Derek fainting in his living room and then throwing up his guts the very next morning.

Derek’s mood shifting rapidly, his emotions all over the place.

Derek being so starved for Stiles’ touch that he can’t even make it home and has sex in the office – something that, now that John really allows himself to think about – is very much on par for Stiles, but absolutely abnormal behavior for Derek Hale.

Lastly, the belly, growing from flat to chubby, to round and then rounder, so round that it’s highly likely John is about to lose his sanity.

Because it can’t be true, what he’s thinking.

It’s not possible.

It’s _insane_.

It’s … Beacon Hills, obviously, because John is one hundred percent not surprised when the whooshing sound of a heartbeat fills the clinic and an image appears on the ultrasound screen that makes John go weak in the knees.

He was right.

It’s going to change _everything_.

“ _Oh my god_!” John whispers, can’t keep it in any longer, and for a moment there’s just silence, weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Then …

“Well, Derek … it’s not a dragon,” Deaton says calmly and the silence shatters as everyone starts talking at once.

Everyone except Derek, that is, who’s looking at the screen with an expression John doubts they’d find a word for in the dictionary to describe.

“Holy shit!”

“Oh my god, is that …”

“How is that even possible, why …”

“Is that a _baby_ , why would there be …”

“Fuck!”

They’re all talking over each other, but John only pays attention to Stiles and Derek, who’re now looking at each other with that expression John can’t name, their hands clasped so tightly their knuckles are white as snow.

“Uh, Deaton? Is that a … a _baby_?”

Stiles’ voice is frayed around the edges, but his words are steady and it’s not the time and place at all but John is so fucking proud of him right now.

He’s proud because he can see the determination in Stiles’ eyes, knows that he’s already stepping up even though it’s not even confirmed yet.

“Yes, Mr. Stilinski. Before you ask, I have no idea how this is possible, but yes, that is definitely a baby.”

Derek lets out a soft gasp, fingers pressing against the side of his belly, and John notices the child shift on the ultrasound, feeling like he’s fallen down into the rabbit hole for good.

“It’s moving again,” Derek says, almost too quiet to hear, and his voice is as frayed as Stiles’ is, making John’s heart constrict painfully.

“That’s not surprising, given the advanced stage of fetal development. I’m not an expert, obviously, but every emissary receives at least basic midwifery training because most of the time a pregnant werewolf cannot labor in a hospital. Too hard to explain the flashing eyes and claws, you know? I can’t say for sure, but given the child’s size it looks like you’re at least twenty weeks along, Derek. Did something out of the ordinary happen to the two of you at the end of March? Unless … this _is_ Mr. Stilinski’s kid, I’m assuming?”

“Damn right it is!” Stiles barks, then sits down on the chair so heavily that John worries he’s bruised his coccyx.

“Holy shit!” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else, and John grasps his son’s shoulder, figuring that, when faced with the choice between offering comfort to one’s child and fainting with shock, one better step up.

“Is it … is it _evil_?” Scott asks timidly, looking like he’s still computing, and for a second Derek and Stiles look so outraged that John would laugh if he wasn’t still freaking out.

“Come on, it’s a valid question!” Scott defends himself, tugging at his hair in his anxiety.

“Ok, so maybe not evil. But if it’s not evil, how is this even possible?”

Stiles lets out a breath, whirling towards Deaton.

“Yes, how the hell is this possible? I read the bestiary up and down and male werewolves _can’t_ get pregnant! Trust me, that was one of the first things I checked when Derek and I started … not important! Did I miss something? Derek, did your mother ever say this could happen?”

Derek shakes his head immediately, looking almost offended.

“No! If Mom had known about it she would have told me! And if she had, I would have never kept this from you! It shouldn’t be possible! It _can’t_ be possible! But it’s … it’s in here, Stiles! I can hear the heartbeat, now I … I think I’ve been hearing it for a while, I just didn’t … I mean … Stiles … I ... _Stiles_!”

“I love you. So much,” Stiles says firmly, grasping Derek’s face when the werewolf starts drawing in labored breaths.

“I know you would have told me, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. But Derek … if this shouldn’t be possible that means that something happened to you in March and we need to figure out what it was!”

“Seems pretty clear what happened, Stiles,” Isaac snarks, earning himself a swat on the back of his head from Boyd instantly.

Stiles throws him an icy glare, turning to look at Lydia when the pack’s banshee clears her throat.

“It could be number of things, actually,” Lydia says, looking towards Deaton for confirmation.

“Magic seems the most likely, maybe a spell or even a curse? Derek, did you encounter a magical being in March?” Lydia asks, already thumbing through the bestiary on her phone.

“What? No! I would have _told you_!” Derek exclaims heatedly and Stiles shakes his head as well, looking deeply troubled.

“There are a number of creatures with enough magical mojo to make something like this possible,” Deaton says, looking back and forth between Derek’s belly and the ultrasound machine.

“A djinn, a fae, a warlock, a nymph, a …”

He keeps talking, but John is no longer listening, his heart suddenly thumping all the way up in his throat.

_I will grant you what you wish the most._

He didn’t actually wish for anything though, did he?

He never said anything to the creature he rescued from the drain all these months ago, he just held her up in his hand until she started glowing, looking up at him as if she was reading his mind …

But he hadn’t been thinking about …

He didn’t want … he didn’t wish …

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

“Holy shit! John, are you ok? Your heart is racing!”

Scott is suddenly right in front of him and John nods automatically, feeling numb with shock.

“Dad? Dad, what’s wrong, you’re white as a sheet! Are you having a heart attack right now? Don’t you _dare_ have a heart attack, how the hell am I supposed to be a daddy when I don’t have you to bother with questions!”

Stiles babbles helplessly, looking torn between his desire to help John and the realization that it would mean letting go of Derek.

John’s heart seizes painfully.

He’s so fucked.

So, so, fucked.

“Uh … guys? I think this is my fault.”

There’s silence.

Then …

“You had sex with _Derek_?”

John takes a deep breath.

Then another.

“No, Scott … not quite.”

 

================

 

John can’t sleep.

He tries, staring at the darkness of his bedroom ceiling, but the tightness inside his chest is too uncomfortable, gripping him tighter each time he tries to relax.

He gets up, paces the house, and tries not to think too much.

Except thinking about it is all he does, their shocked faces staring back at him wherever he looks.

It’s his fault and it’s not his fault, they can agree on that, at least.

They know he would have never gotten them in this situation if he’d known the little nymph could read minds, they know he would have told her a very firm no if he’d even for one second believed she was truly about to grant him a wish.

They know he had no malicious intentions, they know how incredibly sorry he is.

They love him, still and they’ll forgive him for this, John knows that deep down in his heart, even if Stiles’ last words to him were still tinged with barely controlled anger.

First, there had been the accusations.

Then there’d been the stunned silence, followed by incredulity, questions like “Didn’t you stop to think for one second?” and “How long have you lived in Beacon Hills, exactly, you _know_ you can’t trust all the weird shit that keeps happening here!” being fired at him from both Stiles, Deaton, _and_ Lydia, delivered with differing amounts of outrage.

Finally, there’d been the heavy silence, as they’d all stared at Derek, who hadn’t said a single word throughout the argument, fingers gently stroking his belly over and over.

When he’d finally raised his head he’d given John a look that had made his inside curl, a look filled with fear, pain, betrayal, and so much helpless love it had left John breathless.

It’s Derek’s face most of all that he keeps seeing, guilt threatening to choke him every time he focuses on the betrayal.

He loves the baby.

That much John knows for sure.

Nymphs aren’t malicious by nature, Deaton had explained, meaning that the baby will very likely be born completely normal, happy, healthy, and not evil at all, growing safely inside Derek until it’s ready to meet the world, restoring the Hale line, and growing Stiles and Derek’s family in a way that none of them ever thought possible.

They’ll love the baby, both of them.

They’ll love it so very deeply and anyone would only have to take a single look at their faces to know that Derek’s likely already there and Stiles is three-quarters of the way there.

At least.

Heck, John himself will love his grandbaby so much, he wished for it, after all, but that doesn’t change the fact that he feels … dirty.

He doesn’t want to use the word.

Can’t bring himself to use the word, really, knows that he can’t truly put himself into the long line of people who’ve taken Derek’s agency over his own body away from him.

He knows he doesn’t compare to a Kate, or a Jennifer, or a Deucalion, but he also knows that he made a wish and Derek’s body was altered in a profoundly life-changing way, setting in motion a chain of events that’ll stay with him for the rest of his life.

None of them had said it.

Not even when Stiles had been yelling at him so loudly John thought he might burst a blood vessel.

They don’t need to say it, though, and it’s not like the guilt is new, either.

There’s nothing John could have done about Deucalion or Jennifer, but Derek was fifteen when he met Kate Argent.

Barely sixteen when she lured him into her bed with soft kisses and whispered promises, taking his virginity and going on to irrevocably take everything he’d ever loved away from him.

They should have stopped it, somehow.

John truly believes that it does take a village to raise a child and there are many days when he hopes to god that no one ever saw them, because that’s a whole lot easier to accept than believing that maybe someone _did_ see them, but didn’t bother to report it.

It takes a village to raise a child and Beacon Hills failed its child Derek so thoroughly and heartbreakingly, led by John himself, who’d just been elected Sheriff and should have paid better attention.

On some level, he knows he’s being unfair to himself and the town.

He knows Kate was a clever psychopath, a natural-born predator who took utmost precaution to avoid getting caught.

He _knows_ that no one ever saw them, knows that no one could have stopped what happened.

Doesn’t mean he can’t feel guilty about it.

This though … this just makes it worse.

He walks up the stairs and into the hallway, still pacing, pauses in front of Stiles’ old bedroom.

 _A crib could go in here. For the overnight visits_ , he thinks, sizing up the space with a critical eye.

Then he has to sit down, put his head between his knees, and breathe really loudly for a good five minutes.

It’s a long night.

 

======================

 

“Alright, so!”

Stiles looks like he hasn’t sleep in days when he marches into the kitchen the next morning, startling a seriously exhausted John out of staring at his cold cup of coffee.

“I said it last night and I’m going to say it again, just so we’re one hundred percent clear on this! You never take candy from a stranger and you never _,_ I repeat, _never_ say, ‘Why thank you, that sound’s perfectly safe’ when a _monster offers to grant you a fucking wish_! Never! That’s non-negotiable, period!”

John nods silently because yes, he’s one hundred and fifty thousand percent clear on this.

He meets Stiles’ gaze and something inside his son seems to crumble, because one minute he’s standing there and the next he’s hugging John’s neck tightly, his voice heavy with emotion when he speaks again.

“He doesn’t hate you, Dad! He could never hate you! Neither of us does! We know you didn’t mean for this to happen. If anyone deserves blame here, it’s the damn nymph who didn’t bother to fucking _ask_ if Derek wanted to have his body messed with before she did it! So whatever you’re thinking, stop! You’re not … he doesn’t … just … no. Alright? _No_!”

John hugs him back just as fiercely, not even noticing he’s crying until the tears are cooling on his cheeks.

“How’s he doing?” he asks at last, even though he’s afraid of the answer.

Stiles sighs heavily, suddenly looking a lot older than he is.

“Derek’s … a lot of things, honestly,” Stiles answers, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

“He’s sleeping now, thank god, because I googled, and if we really made this baby the day you wished for it, then he’s at least twenty-three weeks along and he really needs to rest. I downloaded like ten apps about pregnancy and baby development last night, it’s crazy how much you can do wrong with all that, apparently. Makes you wonder how humanity ever survived in the first place. Well … not everyone had access to a fancy brie-sandwich, I guess. Not the point, sorry, I haven’t slept in like 36 hours, I’m running on fumes here.”

Stiles laughs, a brittle, heartbreaking little sound.

“A huge part of him is relieved, I think. That there’s a reason for everything, you know? I wasn’t around for most of the first trimester, so I didn’t really notice, but he told me that he was so exhausted at times he’d go days without running, even though he usually runs everyday, twice if he has lots of free time. Then of course the fact that he couldn’t drink coffee anymore to pick himself up because he started getting nauseous at even just the smell towards the end of April. He wasn’t entirely chill about the whole fainting and vomiting business, either, but I’m dating a martyr wolf who would rather keep stuff from me and _die_ than tell me he’s feeling bad, apparently,” Stiles says grumpily, accepting the coffee mug John holds out to him with a grateful half-smile.

“He was freaking out about the mood swings, too, because he’s worked so damn hard on his control and snapping at everyone and everything is not the type of person he wants to be. He came home upset every night for weeks because he’d snapped at someone at work and it made me feel upset, too, because I had no idea what to do or say. And that’s not even getting into the whole physical stuff.”

“I just thought his werewolf metabolism had surrendered to Mrs. Robinson’s cookie deliveries. I wasn’t going to mention it,” John says and Stiles snorts, taking a sip of a coffee only to let out a curse when the hot liquid burns his tongue.

“Ouch, damn it! Well, Dad, _you_ didn’t mention it, but a whole bunch of your deputies did. He’s been getting shit at work for weeks now! That obviously has to stop, stat, because like hell am I going to let them fat-shame my pregnant boyfriend! I mean … I have no idea how to tell them that without telling them he’s pregnant, but I’ll cross that road when we get to it. Damn it, Dad, this entire situation’s just …”

Stiles takes a deep breath, composing himself, and John aches with him, the guilt once more tugging inside his chest.

“At first he thought he’d gotten a bit soft because he stopped running and started eating his weight in cookies roughly around the same time, but then his belly just kept getting rounder and rounder, even after he dialed it down on the cookie binges. It freaked him out because he couldn’t make sense of what was happening and you know werewolves, if there’s one thing that’s crucial for them to be in control of it’s their body and the metamorphoses it goes through. So on that end I really do think he’s relieved. Emotionally …”

Stiles shrugs helpless, flapping his hands like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He looks so lost that John doesn’t know whether to cry or hug him until they both do. He can tell Stiles is struggling for words so he decides to try and explain, now that Stiles isn’t yelling and actually listening.

“Son … if I could change what happened, I would, you have to know that. When that nymph asked me what I wished for I thought about a lot of things, but when I got to grandchildren I just couldn’t stop. I thought … no, actually, I _know_ that the two of you want children. Not right now, probably, and I guess nymphs don’t understand the concept of finishing college and entering the job-market at all, but I _do_ know that once you’d settled you would have actively started searching for ways to make it happen. I think …”

John rubs his eyes, letting out a soft laugh.

“I think she could tell how worried I’ve been that it would never happen for you two. I feel like neither of you has allowed yourselves to really dive into the whole emotional aspect of it, yet, but denying Derek the family he longs for is just … it’s been making me heart-sick for a while, is the thing.”

John takes a sip of his coffee, considering his next words carefully.

“I’ve seen both of you with kids. Hell, I see Derek with kids all the time, either during a call or when the other deputies’ families come to the station. I see the look in his eyes when a baby snuggles into his chest, or a little girl rubs his beard and coos, or a little boy grabs his hand and demands to be picked up. Even worse, I see the look in his eyes when he hands them back.”

He shrugs.

“Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever consciously thought about it like that until now. Well. I guess nymph mind-reading is pretty advanced.”

Stiles’ shoulders slump and he sighs, sinking down into the chair opposite John with a heavy thud.

“We _do_ want kids. And we knew it wouldn’t be easy, either, but we were going to figure that one out when we got to it. Say, in five years, maybe. I mean, Derek’s got a job and he’s got the rest of his inheritance, but what am _I_ bringing to the table? Student loans up to my ears and no job, pretty much. Doesn’t scream Responsible Dad to me if you ask me. Sure, Derek’s offered to pay off my student loans plenty of times, but if he did that his inheritance would be gone and I just don’t want that. It’s his, not mine, I can’t ask that of him!”

Stiles gulps down the rest of his coffee with a grimace.

“And that’s just _my_ issues here, that doesn’t even cover the fact that Derek’s the one whose body is doing something it shouldn’t even be capable of doing and who’s scared out of his fucking mind that something’s going to happen to the baby, even though Deaton promised that the nymph’s wish-spell would have taken care of possible complications. Hell, _I’m_ scared as hell that something’s going to happen to _Derek_ , but of course my martyr wolf has no patience for such worries.”

He rubs his eyes again, fingers shaking barely noticeably.

“So to get back to your original question: he’s relieved, he’s terrified, he’s angry at the fucking nymph that he didn’t get a say in it, and he’s trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there’s a baby inside his body. Frankly, it’s going to take a while until that one truly sinks in, I think. I mean, _I_ haven’t wrapped my mind around it yet even though I saw it black and white on that ultrasound machine yesterday!”

“Should I … should I go talk to him? Apologize again? Do something? I feel like I have to do something but I just don’t know what would make this easier for him.”

John swallows down the irrational hurt when Stiles shakes his head jerkily, looking determined.

“God no! Sorry, that came out too harsh. No. I appreciate the offer, Dad, but I think you have to let us figure this out for ourselves for now. Derek’s not angry with you, I promise, but he needs some space. He’s going to call in sick for work for a couple of days and when he’s ready we’re all going to sit down and talk this out and figure out how we’re going to get through the next 17 weeks. There are logistics that need to be considered here, clearly, but frankly, I’m too exhausted right now to even think about that part of the equation.”

Stiles grimaces again and John’s right there with him, his mind already running a mile a minute as he makes a checklist of things they have to consider.

Desk duty, obviously.

Lots of that, because John Stilinski is not having the guy carrying his grandbaby run around and wave a gun to arrest the evildoers of Beacon Hills.

A cover story, too. Maybe an illness, requiring medication that comes with lots of water retention.

Melissa would know, he thinks, making a mental note to call her and ask her to come over so they can get drunk and curse the day they thought that moving to the hellhole of the supernatural was a good idea.

Possibly even an Anti-Fat Shaming seminar for his subordinates, because he might not be entirely up to date on all of this, but he’s not having his deputies run around and bully others.

No way, he’s going to set a good example for his grandbaby.

He’ll have to speak to Deputy Tucker, too, suddenly fiercely glad he partnered Derek with Darrell and not one of the _manlier_ dudes on the force.

Not that Darrell isn’t one big burly dude of a man, of course, but Darrell’s never struck John as the type of guy who constantly has to prove his masculinity by putting down others.

 _Toxic masculinity, that’s the word_ his mind informs him helpfully, and John resists the urge to groan when he imagines what a guy like that would have to say about a pregnant man.

If they’re already teasing him now, what are they going to say in a month? In two? Just before his due date? John hasn’t consciously paid attention to pregnant people in a long time, but he remembers Claudia’s last weeks of pregnancy like it had been yesterday.

Remembers how miserable she was, how ready she was for Stiles to just _get the fuck out of her already_ , remembers hours and hours of massaging swollen feet, watching her grimace through practice contraction after practice contraction, massaging her back, and having to tie her shoes because there was just no way she could to it herself.

Above all, he remembers how big she was, how beautiful she was, how proud he was that he did that – that _they_ did that – how much he loved her for going through this and doing all the hard work so they could have a child.

He remembers how people stopped them on the street, how literally everyone complimented them, the insane amount of strangers wanting to touch her belly.

It had been obvious from space and John has no clue how they’re supposed to hide all of this come winter.

Hell, do police uniforms for men even come with a maternity option?

Then, because his mind is a sadistic butthole, he flashes back to a moment in May, seeing Derek rubbing at his chest with a grimace right before his eyes.

He’d dismissed it at the time, but it makes a frightening amount of sense now, and then his mind is off again, thinking about pre-natal colostrum, nursing, and breast-pumps.

Jesus.

He’s going to have to babysit this kid forever and he’ll still not even come _close_ to making a dent in the dark abyss of amends he has to make to Derek for causing this entire situation.

“Dad? Earth to Dad? What are you thinking about?” Stiles asks, clearly not for the first time.

John startles, staring at his son with wide eyes.

Stiles smiles, his first real smile since he marched into the kitchen, and John doesn’t even want to know what kind of faces he’s been making.

“Uh … breast pumps?”

Stiles flinches.

“One crisis at a time, Dad. One crisis at a time.”

 

==================

 

It’s over a week before John sees Derek again and he busies himself with doing something useful.

Many useful things, actually.

 _Too many, probably_ , he thinks ruefully when he puts the newest Amazon shipment on top of the quickly growing collection of boxes, desperately racking his brain to remember what else one needs for a newborn.

Melissa comes over to eat ice-cream, drink wine, and talk about feelings, and they fall asleep in each others arms, fully-clothed, but offering comfort nevertheless.

He’s got one hell of a hangover the next day, but it’s worth it when he wakes up to the smell of Melissa’s perfume on his pillow and a note that says she had to go for her shift but she’d love to take him out to dinner sometime.

He wouldn’t have considered Accidental Baby-Acquisition as a flirting strategy, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, either.

They’re going to take it slow, obviously, because John’s got a lot on his plate right now, but it’s a step in the right direction and he’s ok with that.

Next, John goes to Costco and buys a shitload of healthy snacks to stash in his office, because he downloaded an app, too, and he’s putting an immediate stop to the cookie and cake binges.

Only healthy food for the grandbaby, from now on.

John isn’t one to police another’s food intake, normally, but he’s learned from the best and he’s starting to see Stiles’ point about wanting to make sure the people you love don’t put crap in their bodies all the time.

Every day after work he spends hours up in the attic, sorting through Stiles’ baby things, smiling at the memories, and missing Claudia so fiercely it hurts his very core.

He also calls their uniform distributor and enquires about maternity uniforms in larger sizes, downloads a Tumblr post about fat-shaming, makes twenty copies, and sticks them to every cubicle wall and door at the station, glaring at each and every one of his subordinates as he does so.

A little over a week after the big reveal, John’s sitting on the couch with a bottle of beer and comparing reviews on Amazon for belly-bands when the door opens and Stiles walks into the room with a hesitant, “Hey,” followed by Derek.

Derek looks tired, beard a lot shaggier than it normally does and his hair a little sleep-mussed, as if he just didn’t have the energy to style it that day. He moves slowly, sinking down into the armchair opposite the couch like he’s afraid he’s going to squash something.

He’s obviously sized up, because even though he’s still wearing one of his go-to Henleys it no longer looks like he’s suffocating in it.  

It could be John’s imagination of course, but he’s pretty sure that Derek’s belly has rounded out even more in the ten days he hasn’t seen him.

 _He’s 25 weeks along now. That would make sense_ , his mind says helpfully, and John feels a little bit bad for staring but he can’t really help it, now that he knows that’s his _grandbaby_ in there.

Fuck. He really needs to get used to that.

Derek places his hand on his abdomen, rubbing softly, and John wonders if it’s already become a habit or if the baby is moving again, like it was when their life turned upside down.

There’s a softness to Derek now, John notices, and it has nothing to do with his expanding midsection.

It’s in the way his hands cradle his abdomen, the barely there smile, the warmth in his eyes when Stiles places his own hand right next to Derek’s, as if it’s already second nature to him.

They’re still at least a little bit in shock.

That much is obvious.

But they love the baby; John can see that clear as day.

It makes something in his chest uncurl, the relief that follows almost punching the breath out of his lungs.

He clears his throat, even though the words seem to be stuck in his mouth.

“Derek, I … I’m sorry,” he says finally, not beating around the bush, because it’s the most important thing here.

Derek looks up at him, eyes unreadable for a moment.

Then he smiles, ever so gently.

“I know. I don’t blame you.”

John exhales heavily.

“Maybe you should.”

Derek shrugs.

“Maybe. Instead of being mad, though, I think I’d rather focus on the fact that the only grandparent my baby’s ever going to have loves it so much he literally wished it into existence.”

John swallows, feeling like he wants to cry.

“Aww hell, kid, don’t make me bawl,” he says and Derek laughs quietly, fingertips gently caressing his belly.

“That would make two of us. Unlike you, however, I’ve got the excuse of hormones from hell.”

“True that,” Stiles offers wholeheartedly, smiling as he kisses Derek’s knuckles in apology.

John smiles back, relief spreading through every cell of his body.

It’s not quite there yet, but they’re going to be ok.

He’s sure of it.

 

================

 

Derek is not pleased one tiny bit when John pulls him off active duty and shackles him to his desk in mid-October.

He’s downright pissed when Stiles sides with John on the issue, but Stilinski men are nothing but persistent when they want to protect the people they love and Derek eventually admits defeat, even though he doesn’t speak to either of them for almost half a day.

John feels for him, he does, but at 30 weeks pregnant Derek’s feet are swollen almost all the time and he’s starting get out of breath quickly, making the idea of chasing criminals rather laughable.

The baby’s as big as a zucchini, apparently, and Derek’s belly is really starting to draw attention, which is another reason John’s happy he can hide behind his desk for most of the day.

Fortunately, the weather starts cooling down rapidly as Halloween approaches and Derek has the excuse of bundling himself up in big sweaters and bulky jackets, making him look big but not pregnant when he goes outside.

On Halloween, Mrs. Robinson stops by with a huge basket of Halloween candy and wordlessly hands Derek a gift, instructing him not to open it until he gets home and holding her finger to her lips with a gentle smile.

When Derek opens it later it turns out to be a shirt, one of those Halloween shirts for pregnant women that have a rib cage at the top and a baby skeleton over the belly.

“You know, I’m not even surprised she knows. She’s lived in Beacon Hills all her life, after all. Though this does explain why she stopped by the nurses station in May and asked what kind of baked goods were safe for pregnant people to eat,” Melissa comments, pulling out her phone for picture-purposes and grinning when Derek models the shirt at the pack Halloween get-together two hours later.

At the beginning of November the baby confirms its parentage and successfully cock-blocks John and Melissa’s first romantic get-away when Stiles calls them in a panic in the middle of the night because Derek’s having contractions.

By the time Melissa’s reassured them it’s just Braxton Hicks and Stiles is no longer wheezing like he’s going to spontaneously combust any second, John’s erection has gone and he’s under no illusion that he’s going to be able to get it up again for at least 24 hours or so, cursing his old man body.

The week before Thanksgiving, John’s grandbaby is as big as a pineapple, Derek’s belly is so large now that he keeps knocking over coffee cups and stacks of papers at the station, and the baby’s kicks are so frequent and strong that they are visible from the outside, forcing Derek to have to wear sweaters over his uniform shirt all the time to avoid curious gazes.

Not from John’s deputies, he’s proud to note, even though he fears their sudden silence on the matter of Derek’s ever-expanding waistline has a lot more to do with their reluctance to sit through another seminar about body-shaming, rather than actual enlightenment.

However, there’s a tense situation one afternoon when Parrish brings in a perp that Derek’s brought in plenty of times before, a lowlife drug-dealer who can’t quite knock his nasty habit of selling shit to underage kids.

Derek is talking to Darrell about a case when the guy is brought in.

He’s resting one of his hands on his belly and pushing the other against his back, making for such a picture-perfect image of a pregnant person that John’s both relieved and also a bit miffed that his deputies seem to be so oblivious to what’s going on right under their noses.

The guy recognizes Derek the moment he walks in and starts laughing, firing off so many hurtful comments about fat pigs in the thirty seconds it takes to walk from the front door to the interrogation room that even John’s head reels back with the vile disgust and hatred buried in each word.

Derek’s embraced the belly long ago, viewing it as a necessary development to giving life to his little one, but his ears and cheeks are blotchy red and he’s got his arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hide by the time Parrish slams the door to the interrogation room shut.

His eyes are suspiciously wet, too, and John feels a distinct homicidal urge at the sight.

He’s also damn grateful that Stiles isn’t hovering around for once, because he’s pretty sure that at this point no one who makes Derek cry in front of Stiles would live to tell the tale.

Well.

Not quite that lethal, probably, but John’s seen the kid yell at bad guys more than enough to know he can eviscerate with words alone.

He takes a step towards the room, not quite sure how he’s going to handle this yet but determined that no one talks to his son-in-law that way, pregnant or otherwise.

However, Darrell clears his throat before John can even take a second step.

“Hold this,” his deputy says brusquely, thrusting his coffee cup at John.

Then he’s off, marching towards the interrogation room with _intent_.

John blinks for a second, then hurries after him, just in time to see how Darrell throws open the door, marches over to the perp who’s resisting Jordan’s attempts at shackling him to the table, and just casually picks him up, hoisting him up in the air by the collar of his shirt.

Growing up as a big black dude in a country that can’t quite equality so well and still clings to the idea that big and black equals danger, Darrell’s always conscious of the way he carries himself, the expressions he makes, and the way he speaks.

It makes John question humanity that he has to be so careful on a daily basis, but he also applauds his deputy for using his awareness of the world they live in to make use of his assets when he has to.

Case in point, going all big black man on the drug dealer’s ass and using his white trash racist little asshole assumptions against him.

 _Kudos_ , John thinks to himself, closing the door to avoid making a spectacle and standing next to Jordan, who’s watching the scene with grim satisfaction.

“Don’t. Be. Disrespectful!” Darrell enunciates slowly and carefully, deepening his voice for dramatic effect as it booms across the room.

“What the fuck, let me …” the perp tries, but Darrell isn’t having it, hoisting him up even higher.

“You’re fucking rude and you didn’t just disrespected my colleague, you also disrespected your momma! Did your momma raise you to talk to people like that? I think not. Why do you have to go and disrespect your momma? That shit ain’t happening under my watch!”

He accentuates it with a gentle shake and the perp’s eyes are wide and terrified, all bravado gone when his head almost touches the ceiling

John clears his throat.

He’d rather not have to clean up pee in his interrogation room, thank you very much.

“You made your point, Darrell,” he says, watching as Derek’s partner sets the guy down with a huff.

Derek’s nowhere to be seen when John and Darrell exit the interrogation room and the station is back to its usual chaos, but Tara makes a telephone gesture, winks, and mouths _Stiles,_ so John’s confident his pregnant son-in-law is being taken care of, for now.

He claps Darrell’s shoulder and motions for him to join him in his office and Darrell nods, following him with a calm expression.

John closes the door behind them and Darrell says “Sorry for the manhandling,” at the same time that John says “Thank you” and for a moment they just stare at each other.

Then Darrell shrugs, scratching his head with a sheepish smile.

“Don’t mention it, boss. I’ve always found that life’s easiest when you follow a couple of ground rules. Don’t kill nobody, like the good Lord says, keep your nose clean, go to school, always respect the ladies … and never, _ever_ tell an expectant momma that she’s fat.”

He pauses and considers.

Then he shrugs, smiling sheepishly.

“Even if that expectant momma is a dude.”

“Uh …” John startles, alarmed, but Darrell holds up one hand, shaking his head.

“I’m not even going to question it. The way I see it, if the Lord didn’t want Hale to get man-pregnant, he probably wouldn’t have made him that way. I don’t judge.”

He lets out a contemplative sound, cocking his head.

“I mean, I must admit that I do occasionally question the good Lord’s sanity when he made Beacon Hills, but maybe he just has a really wicked sense of humor. Or she, I guess, our Tarryn has been really insistent on that lately. I don’t mind, honestly, it’s nice to see my baby’s using the butt load of money I’m throwing at her university to open her horizon, but I’m getting too old to be able to catch up with all the new lingo. Kids these days, am I right?”

“… right,” John says, making a conscious effort to close his gaping mouth, and Darrell nods, satisfied.

“That all, boss?” he asks and after a moment John nods, still a bit stunned.

“Good. Oh, and Sheriff?”

Darrell’s grin is a bit rueful, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he jerks his thumb towards the door.

“It’s kind of not really a secret anymore? I mean, I’m sure the good citizens of Beacon Hills are as oblivious to the weird shit going on around them as always, but for us guys here at the station there’s only so many times you can ignore a dude rubbing his ever-growing belly with a blissful smile and having something push back from the inside before you’re forced to give in to the insanity. We all chipped in and we’re getting him a huge supply of diapers for the baby-shower, by the way, but don’t tell him.”

“Ba … baby-shower?” John asks, eyebrows rising, and Darrell scowls judgmentally.

“ _Boss_! A guy’s _got_ to have a baby shower! You tell that son of yours he better get his man a baby-shower, or else we’re going to have no choice but to start pulling him and all the other furries over for speeding.”

John chokes on air.

“ _Furries_?” he croaks and Darrell shrugs again, completely unperturbed.

“Remember boss, I don’t judge. So, how about that baby-shower?”

“Baby-shower. Got it,” John repeats, feeling thoroughly steamrolled.

“Good man,” Darrell praises, throwing him a little salute before exiting the office.

John stares at the door for a good five minutes after Darrell’s left, contemplating all of his life choices.

Then he picks up the phone to call Lydia.

Baby-shower it is.

 

================

 

As usual, the pack Thanksgiving takes place at Melissa’s house.

After he’s burned the gravy, John is banished from the kitchen alongside Kira, who accidentally stumbled with the knife and almost sliced off her pinky toe.

In the kitchen, Scott and Melissa are squabbling over the right way to prepare the turkey and John and Kira look at each other in amusement, both in agreement that long years of experience trump True Alpha instincts regarding prey.

Boyd, Erica, and Isaac arrive with all the ingredients for pie and immediately get to work in the kitchen and John contemplates feeling guilty for being just a tad useless in this endeavor.

Luckily, that’s when Stiles and Derek arrive, griping at each other like an old married couple and distracting everyone.

“Will you sit down for heaven’s sake and rest your feet, you’ve been whirling around the loft like a Tasmanian devil all day and I don’t … no! Derek Sebastian Hale, don’t you _dare_ pick up that vacuum cleaner!”

Stiles’ eyes are a little wild and Derek looks incredibly annoyed, though his expression softens instantly when Erica and Kira coo at his belly and demand to know how the little one is doing.

Stiles’ shoulders sag in relief when Erica and Kira more or less manhandle Derek into the most comfortable spot on the couch and John takes pity on his kid, slinging one arm across his shoulder and steering him towards the kitchen.

“I love him, god, do I love him, but if he vacuums the loft one more time today I’m going to go insane!” Stiles exclaims after he’s taken a sip of beer, running one hand through his hair until it sticks up in wild tufts.

“He’s nesting, Stiles. It’s completely normal,” Melissa offers, having won the argument over the turkey and looking rather smug about it.

“I get that, I do! But yesterday he made me rearrange the furniture in the nursery five times. Five! I’m not a werewolf, my back’s going to break!”

“That’s not all that’s going to break your back, apparently. You ever heard of a little thing called shower?” Isaac asks casually, though his nose is wrinkled and his eyebrows scream judgment.

Stiles glares, gesturing towards his crotch.

“Yeah, well, _you_ try satisfying a perpetually horny nine-months pregnant 200 plus pound werewolf with unholy stamina! So what if I don’t have the energy to shower every time after, don’t judge what you don’t know! Asshat!”

“Language! What’s the baby going to think?” John chides, grimacing because _images_.

Stiles deflates, looking genuinely apologetic.

“Sorry Dad. I’m just really stressed out right now! Between all the cleaning, the organizing, the sex, those damn Braxton Hicks, and the hormones, there’s so much going on that I don’t even have time to freak out over whether or not I’m going to be a good daddy. Hell, every time I feel the baby kick I literally want to apologize to it because it has no idea it’s about to be born to a daddy who has no fucking clue about any of this!”

“Dude! You’re going to be the _best_ daddy! What are you talking about?” Scott gasps, looking truly affronted.

Stiles smiles grimly.

“Yeah, you have to say that because I made you godfather. Seriously, I’ve never even changed a diaper, I’m going to be useless at this!”

He looks genuinely distressed, like he really believes what he’s saying, and John shakes his head firmly, not willing to indulge the nonsense.

“Son. _No one_ knows what they’re doing in the beginning. No one. Heck, you should have seen me the first time you peed on my face during a diaper change. Your mom almost burst her C-section stitches – that’s how much she laughed. People figure it out though and you’re lucky, because unlike some you’ve got tons of people lining up to help. You’ll be ok. You’ll see.”

“I just love them so much! Both of them! I don’t want to mess up!” Stiles laments, still looking worried, and John gently nudges his shoulder, rolling his eyes fondly.

“And that’s why you won’t mess up. Now you go march your butt over to Derek and tell him you love him. He’s got an infant the size of a papaya squishing down on all his organs and kicking his bladder every hour of the day, he deserves it.”

“Just maybe don’t _show_ him you love him? _Please_. You smell like you’ve already done that plenty today.”

“I hate you, Isaac. So much,” Stiles says darkly and Isaac snorts, flicking a piece of pie dough at him.

“I hate you, too. That’s why our friendship works so well. Now shoo, before I need to get a nose-plug.”

Stiles marches out of the kitchen, grumbling, and John uses the opportunity to steal a couple of kisses from Melissa, ignoring the groaning young adults in the background.

Later, when they’re all lounging around the living room in various stages of food coma, John takes a moment to watch Derek and Stiles, snuggled up on the couch and snoring softly.

Derek’s leaning against Stiles chest, his feet propped up on Erica’s lap and his former Beta is massaging his feet, looking like she’s almost asleep herself but fingers moving steadily all the same.

Stiles has his arms wrapped around Derek’s middle, large palms cradling it protectively.

Derek’s hands are on top of Stiles’ and John can’t help but smile when he sees the soft rippling, indicating that the baby’s done with food coma and wants to play.

Derek’s eyes fly open when there’s a clearly visible kick to the lower right side of his abdomen and he rubs the area, smiling.

“Someone’s awake, I see,” John says quietly, trying not to wake Stiles, and Derek beckons him over with his fingers, nodding his approval.

John hasn’t touched Derek’s belly, much.

Hasn’t touched it more than twice, actually, the first time back in September when the kicks became strong enough to feel on the outside and then at Halloween, when they took a group picture with all the pack members’ hands pointing towards the skeleton and making terrified faces.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to, necessarily, but each time he feels tempted he remembers why all of this is happening in the first place, remembers the wish, the nymph, the guilt.

He knows that pregnant women don’t like to be touched without their permission and as far as Derek and his body are concerned, John’s probably done enough without permission for a lifetime.

Sure, they’re happy now.

Blissfully happy, in fact, but John’s never not going to remember the look on Derek’s face during those first moments, when he’d realized he was pregnant because John wished it so.

John’s face seems to be a dead giveaway for what he’s thinking, because Derek sighs and then just pulls his hand towards his belly and places it flat on his abdomen, chuckling when the baby kicks an instant hello.

John melts, there’s no other way to describe it, and he’s kind of glad the kid’s not born yet and can’t ask for a pony, because damn it, John would go out and get one right this second.

He’s going to be the worst of all pushover grandpas.

It’s a fact.

 

==========

 

Derek’s baby shower takes place the first week of December and John spends the entire time in a state of high alert, expecting the baby to just fall out of Derek with one accidental sneeze.

He seems to be projecting that worry to the sky, because the deputies in attendance tease him endlessly.

John would take it personally, but they did go and buy an impressive load of diapers, so he figures they can be forgiven.

Stiles looks equally ready to pass out with terror every time Derek moves more than an inch and he only calms down when Mrs. Robinson forces him to eat a cookie, after which he looks suspiciously dopey.

“The secret ingredient is love,” she says, eyes twinkling at him when John interrogates.

As a matter of fact, John’s not quite sure how she managed to snag an invite, exactly, but he’s long stopped questioning anything to do with Derek’s pregnancy, really.

Week 38 turns into 39 and John once again puts his foot down and forces Derek to finally go on paternity leave, except this time Derek doesn’t even put up a token fight, clueing John in on the fact just how done the werewolf is with pregnancy.

The baby’s as big as a pumpkin now and Derek barely gets to sleep anymore, kept awake for hours at night because of the baby’s disgruntlement about its seriously cramped living-quarters, frequent bolts of lightening shooting down his legs because the child is pushed down deep into his pelvis and keeps hitting nerve ends, and the constant itch of his belly, skin stretched so tight John is pretty sure only his werewolf healing is keeping the stretch marks at bay.

“Thank god Derek’s the one who ended up pregnant! Can you imagine what would have happened if Derek had been on top that night? He’s a werewolf, so his skin has to be able to shift all over all the time, but I’ve got thick human male skin, which is composed differently than a woman’s and really not made to accommodate a rapidly growing baby! It would have ripped me apart!”

Stiles is not wrong, probably, but John doesn’t begrudge Derek one tiny bit when his heavily pregnant werewolf son-in-law growls and threatens to throw a dinner roll at him.

“Seriously though, thank god I was on top that night!” Stiles repeats, rolling his eyes when John winces.

“Oh come on Dad, you have to know I didn’t put that baby in there just by kissing!”

“Keep talking and you’re never going to put anything anywhere ever again! Now go and get me some chocolate cake, I have a craving!” Derek snaps, clearly about as unwilling to discuss his love life at the dinner table as John is interested in knowing the details.

"Your baby-daddy,” John says as Stiles scrambles away, not without some fondness.

“My baby-daddy,” Derek agrees warmly, smiling peacefully as he strokes his belly.

A couple of days later, John’s fiercely glad he got all of his Christmas shopping done in October, when he kept buying baby things on Amazon, because the two weeks leading up to Christmas are equally filled with end-of-year paper-work and pregnancy drama.

Dramatic re-enactments of the mucus-plug crisis haunt John’s sleep for days after, Derek’s nesting takes unprecedented levels, and there’s one severe bout of Braxton Hicks during a pack dinner towards the end of week 39 that causes a false alarm, resulting in chaos and mayhem.

The practice run is a good lesson, however, because once he’s no longer gasping in pain, Derek forbids everyone without a medical degree or the last name of Stilinski from entering the premises once he actually does go into labor, eyebrows on point and glare thoroughly unimpressed as he takes in the chaos in Melissa’s living room and the terror-widened eyes of his pack.

Then, suddenly, it’s only a week until Christmas, Derek’s due date and John is maybe kind of freaking out.

Not because of the baby – he can’t wait to snuggle and love on that baby, seriously – but because of how it’s supposed to get here in the first place, a topic he’s studiously tried to avoid thinking about too much, even though they’ve long decided that the birth will take place in the Stilinski residence, rather than the loft, since it’s closer to the hospital.

There’s a birth-canal-thing, sort of, mucus-plug trauma and all, but even though John knows that – between werewolf biology and the nymph’s benign intentions – Derek’s highly unlikely to die in childbirth, he can’t help but worry about him every time he goes over to check on them and sees the dark circles under the heavily pregnant werewolf’s eyes.

Despite his fatigue, however, Derek seems calm and happy, all the anxiety of the past two weeks seemingly evaporated over night.

Stiles has finally found a job and he starts the first week of January, so they’re soaking up every moment they have with each other, the last free time they’re going to get before the baby arrives and Stiles goes away during the day to support his family.

Stiles seems to be equal parts torn and elated about the job, which will keep him away from his family more often than he wants to, but comes with an impressive starting salary and has some pretty great benefits, extendable even to the child of a same-sex couple.

They’re going to register it as Cora and Stiles’ biological and Derek’s adopted child, both to avoid suspicion and to make sure the child is recognized as a Hale _and_ Stilinski, and Cora flies in from South America three days before Christmas so she’ll be there to sign the papers, lugging three suitcases of presents with her.

She tries to act stoic and unaffected, only to burst into tears the first time Derek lets her touch his belly.

Cora stays with John to give Derek and Stiles privacy and John catches her in the grandpa-overnight-visit nursery more than once, wondering if the arrival of her niece or nephew is making her reconsider her pack ties.

John hopes she does, for Derek’s sake, mostly, but he also understands that it’s complicated, so he leaves her space, busying himself with organizing the annual Christmas celebration at the station.

It’s a tradition older than John’s tenure as Sheriff that each year on Christmas Eve the children of the deputies who’re stuck working either the Christmas Eve shift or Christmas morning get to come to the station to eat some cookies, get a little present, and meet Santa.

They draw sticks every year to determine who has to play Santa and John feels incredibly relieved it’s not him again this year, right until the moment that Deputy Alvarez calls in sick with the stomach flu four hours before the party is supposed to begin.

John receives the call while he’s still sitting at the breakfast table, having invited Derek and Stiles over for a quiet Christmas Eve morning celebration with Cora, Melissa, Scott, and Kira.

“Where the hell am I getting a Santa at such short notice?” he gripes, steeling himself for having to don the suit himself and enduring hours upon hours of sticky little fingers tugging at his beard and chocolate smeared kisses on his cheek.

He loves them, of course, but the stickiness is not to be underestimated.

“Hmmm ... where to find a dude with a big belly and a beard on such short notice … where indeed?” Cora muses, her eyes sparkling with mischief and delight.

Six heads turn towards Derek in slow motion and Derek looks up questioningly, methodically chewing on a piece of bacon.

“Huh?”

“Son,” John says with a winning smile, at the same time as Stiles groans, “Dad, _no_!”

Six hours later, Stiles is quietly freaking out at the back of the station, googling percentages of first-time mom’s who gave birth within 24 hours of their actual due dates and repeating that getting Derek away from his den at this point in the pregnancy is a bad idea to a rapidly decreasing group of people willing to listen.

Derek’s parked himself on a comfortable armchair at the center of the station, dressed in full Santa gear and patiently listening to every kid who climbs on his lap.

Derek’s belly makes it a bit tough for them to fit but they make it work, somehow, their eyes sparkling as they whisper their secret wishes to Santa.

John can’t help but smile at the irony, wondering what they’re wishing for and whether they realize that, sometimes, wishes do in fact come true.

Darrell steps up to him and hands him two glasses of eggnog, motioning towards Stiles with a fond eye-roll.

“The father-to-be is terrorizing the village. Go fix it boss,” he whispers and John tears himself away from the endearing spectacle, trusting a camera-wielding Cora to take a picture of every cute moment.

“Here, drink,” he says, holding out the second glass to Stiles, but Stiles shakes his head, fingers twitching nervously.

“Nah. Too nervous. Also, there’s like a five percent chance that women deliver on their due dates, what kind of example am I going to set for the kid if it gets here and Daddy’s drunk as a skunk.”

He rubs a hand over his eyes, laughing shakily.

“I will say, however, for as often as I attended this party as a kid, I never imagined that one day I’d be the one who knocked up Santa. Kissed him, maybe, I’ve always had some pretty weird fantasies, but knock him up? Nope, not even in my imagination.”

John snorts, taking a sip of eggnog.

“No kidding,” he says, turning back towards Derek and the children.

Derek is smiling brightly at a little girl, turning towards them to flash that same smile at Stiles, and John can literally feel some of the tension seep out of him.

The little girl hops off of Derek’s lap and for a moment there’s no child in line to meet Santa, so Derek beckons Stiles to come over, eyes twinkling.

Stiles doesn’t sit on Derek’s lap but he perches himself on the armrest, holding up Derek’s hand to kiss it.

“You know, if I wasn’t freaking out right now, this whole outfit would totally be doing it for me,” Stiles muses, a little too loud for John’s comfort.

“Kinky,” Derek whispers, amusement evident in his face, and then he pulls Stiles down for a kiss, gentle and innocent.

Stiles relaxes against him, one hand dropping down to rest on his belly as he pulls him closer with the other and John turns away to give them privacy, accepting another glass of eggnog from Darrell instead.

“Uhm … boss? They know there are kids here, right?” Darrell asks suddenly, raising one eyebrow and when John whirls around he is not even one little bit surprised that in the thirty seconds he wasn’t looking Stiles has somehow shifted the gentle kiss into passionate steamy romance territory, nerves clearly forgotten.

“Let them have their fun, pretty soon they won’t have time for any kind of make-outs,” Mrs. Robinson chides when John lets out a disapproving groan, the flush in her cheeks indicating she’s thoroughly sampled the eggnog.

Again, John doesn’t even question her presence, though he ignores her as he marches up to Stiles and Derek to put a stop to the spectacle.

“Awww, Dad, you’re no fun!” Stiles complains when John threatens to spray them with the hose and Derek blushes, though he doesn’t quite look apologetic either.

Derek opens his mouth to say something but then stops, lips suddenly clamped together tightly.

Because he was blushing before, John can tell the exact moment all the color drains out of Derek’s face from one second to the next, his eyes growing impossible wide as he grabs at his belly.

He lets out a sharp gasp, followed by a groan, and even though he tries to muffle it behind his hand John can tell they’re suddenly the center of attention, feeling all his deputies’ concerned eyes on them when Derek lets out a barely inaudible whine.

“Derek? _Derek_?”

Stiles drops to his knees before him and takes his hands, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Derek breathes through his nose; eyes squeezed shut as he tightens his grip on Stiles’ hands.

John has seen him power through quite a few Braxton Hicks contractions by now but he can feel it in his gut that this is something else, a suspicion that’s confirmed when he notices a trickle of fluid running down Derek’s pant-leg.

“Derek?” Stiles repeats, voice barely above a whisper, and Derek inhales deeply, finally opening his eyes.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he breathes and John knows it’s time.

He’s going to be a grandpa.

 

==================

 

Twenty-five years ago, John spent a long, _long_ thirty hours watching Claudia go through contraction after contraction, seeing her determination in every cry until the doctors finally decided to go for the emergency C-section.

Somehow, waiting in front of the closed door behind which Derek’s laboring to bring his baby into the world feels infinitely longer, each groan and scream tugging at John’s heart with the need to do _something_.

Stiles is in there with him, though, as well as Melissa and Deaton, and John feels that’s entirely enough commotion for one laboring werewolf, so he just sits down in the hallway outside Stiles’ old bedroom and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until, three minutes after midnight, a soft cry rings through the house and John doesn’t have to wait anymore.

 

============

 

Ten toes.

Ten fingers.

A few little birthmarks, sprinkled across wrinkled, rosy skin.

A soft shock of black hair, a little curly, sticking in every direction from a tiny head, shaped a little bit like a cone after it’s strenuous journey through a temporary birth canal.

A light dusting of freckles over a cute upturned nose, little mouth full-lipped and rosy.

There’s no doubt about it.

His granddaughter is perfect and John is so in love with her already he can barely speak with the emotion of it all.

She doesn’t have a name yet, because Derek and Stiles wanted to wait until they saw her, but neither of her daddies are in any state to name anyone right now, both of them having crashed out a little over an hour ago, when the adrenaline finally started to wear off a little and the exhaustion set in.

That’s ok though, John is perfectly fine to call her “my granddaughter” until her fathers make up their minds.

The house is quiet on this early Christmas Day morning, the sun having risen just a couple of minutes ago. John watched it rise from the nursery, gently moving in the rocking chair with the baby in his arms.

Melissa went home half an hour ago, to get ready for unwrapping presents with Scott and Kira, and John should sleep, probably, but he just can’t put his grandbaby down, marveling at how little and perfect she is and accepting that he’ll be wrapped around her tiny finger for the rest of his life.

All across town, John knows that children are getting out of their beds and running down the stairs, excited to discover what Santa has brought them.

At the Stilinski home, John's present is sleeping peacefully in his arms and he couldn’t imagine a place he’d rather be.

“Do you like your wish?”

John startles a little, tightening his hold on the baby so he doesn’t jostle her, and when he looks down the nymph is perched on the armrest, her smile genuine and a little proud as she admires her work.

“I love her,” John says, not having to think about it for one second.

The nymph nods, satisfied.

John sees the tips of her spiky ears begin to glow, as if she’s planning to magically transport away again, so he clears his throat quickly, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes?” the nymph asks and John pauses, hoping he won’t offend the creature but having to say it regardless.

“We love her so very, very much and we’re so grateful you gave her to us. But …” he begins and the nymph smiles, a little sheepishly.

“I should have asked them first?” she finishes his sentence, cocking her head to the side inquisitively.

“Yeah,” John says simply, because it is, in fact, simple, and the nymph nods, smile turning a little apologetic.

“Next time,” the nymph promises, a little impish grin on her face when John sputters.

“ _Next_ _time_?” he repeats and the nymph shrugs, still smiling

“Well, not for you guys, obviously. When you made your wish you did want grand _children_ , so I kind of made the adjustment to the werewolf’s insides permanent. However, the next time a hopeful grandparent-to-be wants to have grandchildren, I’ll make sure to check in with the kids in question first. Pinky-promise.”

“ _Permanent_?” John whispers, a little weakly, and the nymph nods, looking proud once more.

“Pretty great, right? That way they can have as many little ones as they want without having to worry about finding a magical creature nice enough to help them along! Though, now that I’m saying it … I guess I _probably_ should have mentioned earlier that they’ll have to be really careful from now on, or else the werewolf is going to conceive pretty much every time they have sex. I don’t half-ass my work, you know. Ah well, next time!”

She smiles, takes a little bow, and then she’s gone, the only reminder she was there a soft sparkling of light dancing in the air.

John blinks.

Then blinks again, looking down at the baby.

“Guess who’s going to have a super fun conversation with your daddies when they wake up,” he tells her, shaking his head because … Beacon Hills.

He should have known.

The baby lets out a little coo, gripping John’s finger tightly, and when she opens her eyes and looks at him for the first time, John doesn’t care about anything else for the moment, once again rendered breathless.

“Well then, little lady, since you’re Grandpa’s Christmas present I think it’s about time I put you under the tree and take the first of the millions of pictures I’m going to show to everyone until you graduate from high school,” he tells her, smiling down at her.

The baby sniffles, closing her eyes again, and maybe John can hold off on the bragging pictures just a little longer.

They’ve got all the time in the world and John can’t wait to see what else the future holds for his family.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and I wish you all a happy New Year! See you all in 2018!


End file.
